A Grandparent's Gift of Love Page 2

  The room was eerily silent as feelings of sadness and anger battled for my attention. The stillness of our environment, pierced only by a few tears from one or both of us, was shattered when Sergeant Judd peeked from around the corner, carefully asking if Irina could offer a description of her attacker. She gently nodded. And during the next thirty minutes, as questions about the color of his eyes, the length of his nose, and the structure of his jaw were posed, the predator’s face gradually began to form on the computer screen. In the completed sketch he appeared sinister, because I knew the harm he was capable of inflicting. Irina said he had arrived in a clean white car, wearing khakis, a polo shirt, baseball cap, and new sneakers. He joked, appeared friendly—nothing to hint that behind his facade lurked a man with cruel intentions.

  After a seven-hour hospital stay Irina returned to the scene of the crime, and with police cameras rolling she gave a painstaking account of what transpired. Feeling slightly embarrassed and wanting to spare me from the appalling details, she asked me to go home and wait for her arrival.

  A few minutes past eleven a glistening white police cruiser crept into the driveway, crunching the gravel as the wheels rolled toward the front door. Irina arrived home traumatized, exhausted. Thinking all she wanted was a feathery pillow, her favorite blanket, and some sleep, I escorted her into the bedroom. “I’m starving,” she said in a shallow voice, swerving back toward the kitchen.

  Rifling through the refrigerator, I found a Tupperware container of fluffy mashed potatoes, the perfect comfort food. Two minutes later the shrill beep of the microwave blared through the kitchen, shattering the stillness surrounding us. “Would you like some butter?” I asked. She nodded, and I slid a knife across the top of the container, letting a curl of butter linger over the mashed potatoes before it plunged into the steaming pile below. It liquefied quickly, and I couldn’t help but wonder if that’s how Irina felt when she fell under her attacker’s violent hands.

  “Mashed potatoes are like a warm blanket,” she said softly, nibbling tiny bites off the edge of her fork, the bruises to her jaw preventing her from opening her mouth fully. She took her time, eventually wiping the plate clean.

  After a steaming shower and the sheltered warmth of her favorite pair of flannel pajamas clinging to her skin, Irina lay down searching for some semblance of peace, desperate to flee from the harsh reality of what occurred that day. But the vision that tormented her appeared on the dark screens of her eyelids each time she tried to sleep. As I lay there holding her, she shared with me the vision she could not escape.…

  “I was showing him the bedroom,” she said in a crackling voice, “when he reached under the cuff of his pants and pulled out a knife. I screamed at the top of my lungs, but no one could hear me.”

  There was a sadness in her voice that paralyzed me. Lying there cuddled up under my arms, her legs and feet tucked snugly inside mine, overwrought with the horror she’d experienced that day, she wept. Drawing in hiccupy gulps of air, she cried out, “I can’t see anything but him, and I can’t feel anything but scared!”

  His mocking words echoed in her mind. She was hearing again and again the same chilling voice she heard that afternoon. An evil man telling her what he was about to do to her. Delicately saying she was safe now in my hands had a hollow effect, the shield of fear engulfing her causing my words to echo as if I were yelling down a dark vacant corridor. My mind fumbled for the right thing to say, but it wasn’t until I relented, allowing my heart to take control, that the soothing influence I so desperately wanted bubbled to the surface.

  To this day I don’t know how or why, but I began telling Irina stories about my grandparents, and soon found that the love grandparents are known for began working its magic on her heart and her imagination.

  “When we’re scared, the best thing we can do is imagine a place where we feel loved—a place of warmth, tenderness, and strength. Boating with my grandfather is one of those memories for me,” I whispered. “The two of us floating aimlessly on the lake in an old rowboat pelted with dents. We’d sit out there for hours basking in the warm glow of the sun while our butts grew numb from squatting on those metal seats waiting for the fish to tug on our lines. He’d talk about life, the lessons he learned, his experiences, and what leads to happiness.”

  I wrapped my arms broadly around her, and she murmured, “I needed a hug like this one.”

  “My grandma taught me the art of hugging,” I said with a sad smile. “She told me the secret ingredients are squeezing and tenderness—making sure your hugs have just the right amount of each.

  “When we’re scared, one of the best things we can do is laugh, because there’s no room for fear in a smiling heart,” I said. “Did I ever tell you about the time when I was a boy and screamed because I came face-to-face with my grandfather’s false teeth? He accidentally left them in a glass of water on the kitchen table.”

  Irina chuckled, her body quaking slightly under my arms, and the sharp claws of fear began to relinquish their grip on her imagination. My simple tales kindled the memories of her own grandparents, and as she began talking about them, the tender, affectionate visions of her grandma and grandpa replaced the vicious images of her attacker. Thinking of her own grandparents, the sacrifices they had made and the obstacles they overcame, reminded her of simpler times, all the things she had yet to experience, and that anything is possible. Those thoughts began to fortify her spirit, giving her strength and hope when she needed them most. She reflected that her life might have ended that day. But she had survived, and lying there that night, as her panicked breathing subsided, she took the first steps toward acquiring an appreciation for life that comes only from facing your own mortality.

  The essence and love of our grandparents enveloped us that night, enabling Irina to fall asleep peacefully despite the ghastly encounter she had faced that day. As she drifted off, I lay mystified at the soothing effect the memory and wisdom of our grandparents had on her during such a traumatic time. What did other grandparents have to share that could enlighten and inspire people of all ages and under any of life’s circumstances? What stories could people share who were dramatically influenced by a grandparent or significant elder? I wondered.

  Convinced that people from all walks of life would embrace a book of stories brimming with love, wisdom, sacrifices, and guidance from society’s most experienced members, I began my search for the stories that fill the book you now hold in your hands.

  The two-year anniversary of that day has passed. Irina has proven herself a poster child for possessing courage and gallantly conquering extreme adversity. On the first anniversary of her attack, instead of sitting around thinking of what had happened the year before, she decided to face fear on her own terms. She went skydiving. A symbol stating, I am not beaten and refuse to live my life in a protective shell, fearful of the things I may face in this world.

  On the second anniversary, I accompanied her atop the South Tower of the Golden Gate Bridge, one thousand feet above the vast Pacific. Together we soaked up the spellbinding view, thankful that she was still alive, that we had each other, and that we were fortunate enough to live in such a magnificent environment. Standing there, a jerky breeze swirling around me, I gazed down at the tourists strolling carelessly along the bridge snapping pictures of Alcatraz and gazing at the bright orange towers rising boldly into the turquoise sky. I recalled the day two years earlier, overcome with gratitude that although Irina says a part of her died that day, she is still the same woman I grew to love. And as I watched her gasping in awe at the splendor of the bay and the panoramic view, I smiled, thrilled that her childlike spirit and zest for living still shone brightly.

  Irina’s attacker was captured five days after the crime was committed. The detailed sketch Irina gave of him appeared in newspapers throughout California and was the critical factor in bringing him to justice. He pleaded guilty eighteen months later and was sentenced to 251 years in prison. It was his third strike in a
string of violent crimes and warranted the life sentence. On the day of sentencing, with her attacker outfitted in maroon prison fatigues, his arms and legs in shackles, Irina boldly stood before a packed courtroom and gave an emotionally charged speech, saying …

  “I have turned many stones—trying to explain it, trying to make sense. But what happened to me is a senseless act. A part of me still feels scared—when riding alone in an elevator with a strange man my imagination sometimes gets the best of me. Every day I live with the memory of what happened, but I will not let it beat me. I will think of him every day for the rest of my life. My bad days don’t seem as bad any longer, and on my best days I sometimes cry, remembering what he did to me and feeling thankful that I survived. I understand just how precious life is and that each moment is a gift I must use to the fullest.”

  Time; and the love she receives from her family, friends, and myself; and the stories of courage, sacrifice, and hope within this book have helped her to heal. There will never be closure, but she understands that if you are willing to make it happen, something good can arise from the ashes of life’s traumatic events.

  Today Irina and I are happily married. On the day of our wedding, as we stood before family and friends, I gazed into her eyes and thought of all we had been through together. She was right, I said to myself; standing there about to exchange vows, I thought of the day she was attacked, but my spirits were not dampened. Instead, I felt more grateful then ever, knowing that we had each other and since we had made it through that traumatic ordeal there was nothing we couldn’t handle as long as we had each other.

  Perhaps the best we can do is try to benefit from all our life experiences and learn from the insights of those who came before us to help enrich our community, our nation, and possibly even our world. And to always live by the philosophy, It’s not what happens to you, it’s what you do with it that makes all the difference.

  Edward Fays

  CHAPTER ONE

  EMBRACING EVERY STAGE OF LIFE

  Recognizing the beauty in each season of life and moving toward it with childlike curiosity and hopeful anticipation

  Why do so many of us fear the aging process? As life moves forward, some doors close forever while new doors open, ready to provide us with fresh adventures that will hopefully enrich our lives even further. Welcoming each year with verve, by anticipating who we’ll meet and all that we’ll learn, is the finest way to live. Our life is a book that we write as we go along, and like any book, we must strive to make it interesting and, of course, make it complete.

  Excuse Me, Mister, hut Why

  Are You So Wrinkled?

  A little elementary school was set on a small parcel of land, complete with jungle gym and basketball hoop. From the school playground you could see the front porch of a nearby senior center. The kids were always too busy playing to pay any attention to the center, but many of the seniors delighted in watching the kids frolic in the schoolyard.

  One day Ms. Valentine, the first-grade teacher, noticed the seniors watching the children and thought it would be a good idea to bring them together. So early one morning the following week, the children were escorted hand-in-hand out the door of their classroom, through the playground, beyond the school fence, and over to the senior center.

  The students were allowed to mingle if they liked, and some were introduced to residents of the center. Remmy Evans, an enterprising little boy, was strolling around as if he were sizing everyone up when he spotted an older gentleman outfitted in a checkered flannel shirt and sky-blue baseball cap sitting off in the corner. Their eyes met, and the man waved Remmy over. “Hello, I’m Mr. Royce,” said the man, extending his hand as if they were about to engage in a business meeting.

  Remmy observed Mr. Royce’s hand curiously and said, “Excuse me, mister, but why are you so wrinkled?”

  Mr. Royce laughed heartily and said, “Now, that is a very good question. Would you really like to know?”

  “Sure,” replied Remmy.

  “What’s your name?” asked Mr. Royce.

  Remmy hopped up on a chair and said, “My name is Remmy Theodore Evans. But most people just call me Remmy.”

  “Well, Remmy, let me tell you the story about wrinkles. Most people think wrinkles are a sign of age, but they’re really a sign of use. When you’re wrinkled, like me, it means you have lived a full life. It means you have more memories than most people do. I’ll show you what I mean. How many times has Santa Claus visited your house?”

  Remmy scratched his head, and his eyes rolled back before he finally responded. “Well, I’m six, but I can only remember the last couple of years, and Santa Claus came those times.”

  “So you know for sure that Santa Claus visited your house at least twice?” asked Mr. Royce.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” replied Remmy.

  “Listen to this,” announced Mr. Royce. “Santa Claus has visited me eighty-nine times!”

  Remmy’s eyes opened wide, and with his mouth gaping he declared, “Wow! You must have a lot of great toys!”

  “I did,” said Mr. Royce, laughing. “Many of them are old now, like me.”

  “But when toys get old they don’t get wrinkled,” remarked Remmy.

  Mr. Royce chuckled and said, “That’s right. Instead they get chipped paint and broken pieces. It’s kind of the same thing. The same way toys get used, people’s bodies get used. Toys get old because we use them. My body is old and wrinkled because I used it. Do you have an old toy that doesn’t work well anymore?”

  “Yeah, a couple of them,” replied Remmy.

  “Well, that’s the way my body is now. Do you remember having fun playing with those toys?”

  “Yeah! My best friend, Ronnie, would come over, and we would play with them a lot,” Remmy said excitedly.

  “So you have happy memories playing with your old toys, even though they don’t work too well anymore?”

  “I sure do, but I like my new ones, too.”

  “What if you never played with your old toys?” asked Mr. Royce. “They might still be like new, but you wouldn’t have fun memories of playing with them, right?”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “Which would you rather have, the good times playing with your friend or your old toys looking like new?”

  Without hesitation Remmy exclaimed, “The fun with my friend! We laughed a lot.”

  “That’s the same way I feel about my body,” explained Mr. Royce. “I had fun in my life and did a lot of exciting things. If I wanted to protect my body and try to keep it looking like new, I would have missed out on some great times. The same thing goes for you and your toys. If you leave all your toys in the box and never play with them, they’ll never get old and break, but you’ll never have any fun with them either. Have you ever skinned your knee?”

  “Yeah, look!” Remmy rolled his pants leg up over his right knee, proudly displaying a wound from the playground.

  “That’s okay,” said Mr. Royce. “You’re using your body and having fun. I had a lot of bumps and bruises in my life. I usually got them while I was doing something I liked. It was worth getting a bump on the knee. The same way using a toy until it breaks is okay, because you enjoyed playing with it.” With a concerned look on his face, Mr. Royce asked, “Am I making sense?”

  “I get it,” obliged Remmy. “I was having fun when I skinned my knee.”

  Mr. Royce smiled and continued. “When a baby is born, she’s soft and smooth because she’s new. But she also hasn’t had any fun yet. She doesn’t have any memories of playing with her friends either. But as she grows, she’ll have fun, make memories with her friends, and, sure enough, skin her knee. When she gets old, like me, she’ll have wrinkles, too.

  “So now do you know why I have all these wrinkles?”

  “Yeah!” said Remmy. “You’re all used up!”

  Laughing boisterously, Mr. Royce confessed, “Yes, that’s a big part of it. I’ve also got wrinkles because I’ve
lived a long time and had a lot of fun. I like to think of each wrinkle as a great memory.”

  “You must be really happy,” declared Remmy.

  With a nostalgic look on his face, Mr. Royce responded, “I certainly am, son. I certainly am.”

  As Ms. Valentine called for the students to say their goodbyes, Mr. Royce reached out his wrinkled hand to say farewell, but Remmy didn’t shake it. Instead he gave Mr. Royce an affectionate hug and ran off to join his classmates. A flurry of distant memories flashed through Mr. Royce’s mind, and his eyes prickled with tears. He was delighted with the new memory he and Remmy had just created. He hoped it would be one Remmy would think of someday, many years from then, when he had wrinkles, too.

  Inspired by ANITA HART

  When There Are No Words to Say …

  She stood there shivering, raking her fingers over her head, strands of hair falling onto the sink; some snared under her nails. Her nerves were frayed, a violin string stressed to the breaking point. The wind and rain fueled the intensity of the moment, beating against the glass like an intruder trying to force his way inside.

  I stood off in the corner, silently, out of sight. My eyes beaded with tears as I gazed at her, trying to comprehend what she was thinking. But how could I understand, even though I desperately wanted to? How could I possibly know what it felt like to be moments away from beginning a second round of chemotherapy treatments?

  Standing there, I recalled the day more than a year earlier when she had first gotten the diagnosis. It was summer, one of those mornings when you step outside and are smacked by the sumptuous bouquet of flowers in bloom. We had planned on playing tennis that morning, but the phone rang, changing our lives forever. I walked inside, my cheery smile and sprightly colored yellow-and-white tennis outfit in stark contrast to the moment. She was sitting at the table, her face whitewashed, her hands fidgety. “I have cancer,” she said crisply, so I would hear it the first time, so she wouldn’t have to repeat those stinging words. The fresh-scented summer morning suddenly turned to gloom. “They want me to come in next week to discuss treatment options,” she continued. “I just went in for my annual checkup the other day, and now they want to talk with me about treating cancer. My God!”